Orpheus

Orpheus

By Dan DeWitt

Copyright 2011 Dan DeWitt

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For JoAnne: Without you there would be no “Orpheus,”

no works in progress, no stories worth telling.

ORPHEUS

Chapter 1: The Rookie

He didn't want to turn the corner. He didn't know what was ahead of him, but the only thing that was worse than that was that he had no idea what might be behind him. That thought served to overcome his fear, albeit temporarily, but long enough to decide to move ahead.

He raised his pistol, remembering his training that seemed to have taken place a lifetime ago. He took a series of quick, shallow breaths, calming himself the best he could under the circumstances. He was tired, alone, and scared out of his mind, but he was taking that corner now. He mouthed a silent battle cry and moved quickly to the door on the opposite side of the hall. It was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open with his shoulder, taking care that it didn't bang against the wall as it swung open. He stepped to his left, out of the doorway but not moving any further into the room, either. Despite the increasing dimness, he didn't need his flashlight to see that the room was empty and theoretically safe.

He clicked the door shut quietly and leaned against it. He released the breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding and raised his flashlight. He swept it across what appeared to be a sitting room or a study in a slow arc, looking for anything that was both useful and portable. He didn't immediately see anything that fit that description, but there was an old-fashioned rolltop desk in the corner that might hold a treasure or two.

He moved to the desk, double- and triple-checking that he was really alone. He rolled it up and found nothing but basic supplies: paper, pens, a stapler, rubber bands, and some index cards. He grabbed the rubber bands and, as an afterthought, the index cards. Those could come in handy for marking, at least. He started rifling through the drawers, not coming up with much, until the second-to-last drawer.

Jackpot
, he thought, and he grabbed the several unopened packages of batteries that were there for the taking. He decided that there was nothing else worth weighing him down, so he moved to leave. He put his ear to the door and listened for sounds. He wished that the door had something as simple as a peephole, but he didn't think there was anything out there. He opened the door, looked both ways like a kid crossing the street would, and continued down the hallway.

He heard a noise behind him and froze in his tracks. He spun around and saw one of the things at the end of the corridor. It must have rounded the corner just after he'd figured it to be safe. It still had its back to him, and he had plenty of time to deal with it. He raised his pistol and fired. The report was loud in the hall, but his aim was flawless, and the round hit it in the face. The thing moved a few more steps before realizing that it was dead. It fell to the ground, lying still for the second and last time.

I'm such a bada
- was all he could manage to think before another noise, much closer this time, sounded in his ears. He barely had time to register that before a hand gripped his shoulder and tried to pull him closer.

“Shitshit!”

He shot his left arm behind him. When he made contact with the thing's chest, he pushed it away with a grunt. Its grip was broken and he got a bit of separation, but it moved to close the gap. This one was fast, and he was unable to get off a head shot, so he settled for several in its chest. The slugs knocked it backward, but it came for him again. This time he steadied his weapon with both hands and squeezed off two more rounds, the second taking the thing in the top of the head.

Two more appeared at the opposite end of the long hallway, attracted by the commotion. These two moved almost normally, and were in a near-sprint after him.

Sprinters. Figures.

Still, he knew that he had enough time.

And I have nine rounds. I'm okay.

He fired two more shots, the first in the neck. The second shot was fatal, hitting it almost perfectly between the eyes. He adjusted his aim to dispatch the second one and pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell on an empty cylinder. He fired again, but he was either jammed or out.

I can't be out. This is a 15-round magazine!

He felt around his waist for a spare magazine and came up with nothing. He realized what had happened, and broke into a run away from his pursuer. His heart was pounding as he tried to find something to put between him and the thing to buy him enough time to figure something out. The hallway was lined with doors, but if he guessed wrong and chose one that was locked it would be all over. He wouldn't have time for a second guess.

Then he saw the door to the stairwell. Above it was a red sign that said “EXIT” and it had a welcome crash bar lock release on it.

I can blow through that and catch my breath, at least.

He did just that. He slammed the door shut behind him and sat down with his back to it. He braced his legs against the handrail and prepared for the impact. It was more violent than he anticipated, but the door held closed. He heard a rapid flurry of pounding against the door for several minutes, but it began to wane quickly.

All I have to do is wait it out for a little while.

He heard a sound that made his heart drop. He was on the third floor, and the door to the stairwell was definitely secure. What he'd heard was the second floor door being opened and slamming shut. He was trapped between the thing behind him and whatever just came through the door. He didn't know what to do.

Please be Shufflers. Maybe they'll just fall down the stairs. Even if they don't, I can deal with a couple of Shufflers hand-to-hand if I have to. I'm okay.

They weren't Shufflers. They were Sprinters. Two of them. And they knew he was there. He grabbed his expandable baton from his hip and extended it with a metallic click.

I can do this!

He stood up to confront them and adopted a fighting stance. He raised the baton to strike, when the door behind him opened. He'd forgotten all about that one. It fell on top of him. He tried to strike its head with the baton, but he had no angle or leverage. Its face moved towards his throat with a hungry sneer.

One of the second-floor Sprinters had reached him on the landing. It stared down at him, head shaking in disapproval. It pulled off its mask and drawled, “Now what did y'all learn today, bait?”

* * *

Tim Driscoll kept arguing, but with less conviction every time. “All I'm saying is that it's bullshit that you guys messed with my gear. I would've...”

The man next to him said, “Just zip it, bait.” Though he was roughly the same age as Tim, if that, he spoke with much greater authority that made him sound a lot older. Tim supposed that the man, known as Fish to his squadmates, had seen enough to age him. “You should've checked your load. Ain't no one's fault but your own.” He looked to the locker across from him and the lanky Southerner sitting in front of it. “Tell him, Mutt.”

Mutt didn't immediately say anything. He took his time hanging his jumpsuit in his locker and smoothing his hair. The masks that they wore to protect their faces from the air pistols were effective, but too tight for his tastes. Mutt slammed the door firmly and faced the other two men. “Fish's right, kid. You should always be checking your weapons, ammo, and gear. Always. Yeah, we screwed with it this time for the training, but out there you can drop a mag, forget how many rounds you have left in your piece, have dead batteries in your flash...just check your gear from now on.”

“Got it.”

Fish chimed in, “Always.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

The locker room door opened, and a stocky black man walked in. He nodded. “Fellas.”

They returned the nod.

“Bait, the boss wants to see you. Now.” To emphasize his point, he held the door wide open.

“I reckon you better hurry,” Mutt said. Then he spoke directly to Fish. “Let's go grab a drink or six.”

“I'm in. Sam?”

“Yeah. I'll grab some stogies from my stash. I'll meet you in a few.” He got an impatient look on his face. “
Now
, bait.”

“I'm coming, I'm coming.” He shoved his gear into his locker and grabbed his lock. He paused, opened the door once more, and checked his gear. “Give it.”

Fish laughed and produced a magazine from behind his back. “You're learning already!” Tim took it and put it away. This time he put the lock on. He followed Sam out of the room.

Fish finished lacing up his boots and asked, “What do you think, Mutt?”

Mutt considered the question, “I dunno yet. I'll wait and see what the boss thinks.”

* * *

The walkie chirped in Sam's hand. “Yup, I got him.” He looked at Tim. “You ready?”

Tim looked around. “For what?”

“To meet the man on the roof. Take the stairs. And take these with you.” He handed the younger man two metal tubes. “You have sixty seconds starting right...”

“That's ten flights!”

“...now.” Tim didn't move for a second or two. “You really don't want to keep him waiting, bait.”

Tim broke into a dead sprint and was on the roof with three seconds to spare.

* * *

Tim had to catch his breath for a few seconds. Hands on his knees, he surveyed the roof. There was no artificial light up here, but the moon was nearly full and the night was cloudless, making any man-made light sources unnecessary. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he saw a large outline silhouetted against the night sky.

Orpheus
, he thought, and gulped involuntarily. “Sir?”

“Come here and tell me what you see,” was the reply.

Tim did as he was told. He stood next to his commander and peered down on the city. He saw pockets of light here and there. He could make out occasional bursts of movement. His overall impression was of an eerie serenity, and he said as much. “Quiet, sir. Peace. But I'm a poet at heart.”

“What do you think you'd see in the daylight?

Tim knew firsthand what was down there. "Hell.”

“Know what I see?”

“No, sir.”

“I see the same things that you do, but I have the benefit of experience, if you can call it that, to be able go see even further. I used to see survivors; I used to see hope. Now I see a place that's almost entirely bereft of it." With no additional segue, Orpheus said, “Your dry run went pretty well, all things considered. You showed good movement, a sense of what was worth taking, and a willingness to engage hand-to-hand, if necessary.”

“Thank you.”

“What did you do wrong?”

Tim had thought about this during his run up the stairs, and he thought he knew the answer. Everything was going well until he shot that first zombie (which had actually been Orpheus himself, though Tim had no way of knowing that). “I engaged when I didn't have to. I could have avoided the Shuffler and gone about my way without alerting the Sprinter.”

“We want to be shadows. We're precise, quiet, surgical. Our nickname's kind of cheesy, but it fits what we do. We avoid engagement whenever possible. The training, such as it is, is just a taste of how bad it can get and how quickly it can get there. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why do you want this?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Why would a young kid like you want to march willingly into that mess?”

Tim paused. He knew what he wanted to get across, but he wanted to get the words right. “Someone saved my ass down there. I rolled my ankle pretty bad, and I was limping to an extraction. An armored car was all it was, really. A couple of Sprinters were on my ass. There was no way I was going to make it. Then a man and woman came out of nowhere and held them off long enough for me to get in the car. They were a couple, I think. Had to be.”

“Were?”

“
She made it to safety. He was about to...I mean, he was
right there
...and he misjudged his jump. It was just enough for the first Sprinter to catch up. The woman jumped out and fought like a demon to save the guy. I expected the eight or so other people to help them, but we drove away. I yelled to the driver to wait, but he just yelled that they'd already waited once for me and floored it. I almost rolled out the open door when he did that. Imagine how stupid that would have been.”